Mrs. Wabbles soon had four little mouths to feed, and she worked early and late. The heat was so intense that every little while she would seek the shade, and rest with her wings drooping and her bill open. Notwithstanding the strain on her limited strength, she never showed impatience, but was always the same confiding little bird.
The Wabbles family enjoyed life in the woods. Through the summer and fall months, Wabbles set up a singing-school and trained his boys to sing the mating-song of his species.
Late in the fall death entered the family circle. A boy from the city mistook poor Mrs. Wabbles for an English sparrow and shot her to death. Wabbles mourned for his little wife, and he was not the only mourner. I had become attached to the gentle bird, and I was grievously pained by her tragic death.
Wabbles lost his joyous manner. He watched over his motherless babies with gentle care, but not a song did I hear after the tragedy. Later, he conducted the young birds to a warmer climate, and was lost to me until the next March.
When Wabbles returned in the spring he was alone, and his children did not appear later. I suppose some motherly bird had adopted the bereaved family, to take them into the fields or pastures.
In April, Wabbles deserted me for three days, then returned with another wife. This was an old bird, probably a widow. It was evident from the first that she thought Wabbles's first wife had spoiled him. She bossed him around in grand style. I tried to get acquainted with her, but, with a lordly air, she gave me to understand that she did not associate with hermits. After two days she ordered Wabbles out to the fields, and I did not see him again till October. He came in twice before migration. That was all. Wabbles, the warrior, was henpecked.
The next spring Wabbles returned from the South early in March. I think he was glad to escape from his wife, but three weeks later she swooped down on him, and packed him off to the pastures.
For eleven years Wabbles has lived with his second wife. Every spring he comes to the cabin for a long visit, but I seldom see much of him in the fall. Once I did not see him at all, and reported that probably he was dead, but the next spring he turned up as usual.
It is now fourteen years since I removed the shot from Wabbles's wing. He does not grow old in looks and is yet good for many years, if his wife does not worry him to death.
Dear old Wabbles. He has blessed me with a friendship as sincere and lasting as any that can spring from the human heart. As the years go by, I am more and more impressed with the little bird's individuality. Long ago he proved to me that he possessed a moral sense.